


an epilogue of sorts

by simplycarryon



Category: Undertale (Video Game)
Genre: Gen, Spoilers, everyone lives au, it's a hug party up in here
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-29
Updated: 2015-10-29
Packaged: 2018-04-28 18:04:06
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 696
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5100437
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/simplycarryon/pseuds/simplycarryon
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The world is saved.</p><p>You need a hug.</p>
            </blockquote>





	an epilogue of sorts

**Author's Note:**

  * For [feralphoenix](https://archiveofourown.org/users/feralphoenix/gifts).



> we return once more to the everyone lives au, because I love it, and because it's great for piling hugs on Chara when they need them? especially family hugs ok thank

Toriel looks at you like the world is ending, or beginning.

You’re not sure which would be better, and you look down at your feet, hesitant to initiate anything or ask her for anything because why would you, why would you think that anything had changed, why would you think she’d forgiven you at all—

She nearly bowls you over with the intensity of her embrace, and you tense at the sudden movement and closeness and the way her arms encircle you but you’re too shocked to do anything more than gasp—a quick choked hiccup of air as she gathers you up tightly enough that you think she might never let go.

She huffs gently in your hair, her nose against your ear, and it tickles but instead of laughing you think you might cry. You want to apologize, you want to beg her for forgiveness, but she holds you like she’s already forgiven you, and you lean your forehead on her shoulder and whisper your apologies into her fur as she pulls you to herself. 

“I am so very glad to see you,” she says, pressing a gentle kiss to your forehead.

 

 

Asgore’s hug is an enveloping warmth, an all-encompassing comforting presence that surrounds you like a fluffy blanket on a cold night. He kneels to hold you close, and he smells like tea and earth and sunshine, the familiarity of it all making you pull back with such a pang of guilty nostalgia that your heart aches.

He looks at you, his dark eyes knowing, and when you lower your gaze so he can’t see the guilt that breaks you open from the inside, he sweeps you back into his arms and holds you as tight as you will allow it.

“I’m sorry,” you say, again and again, the words spilling from your heart and your eyes in equal measure; you cling to his shirt, burying your face in his chest. He is enormous and strong, and you think maybe he hasn’t changed, even though you know he has. “I’m so sorry.”

“My child,” he rumbles, his paws heavy at your back, his embrace warm and safe. You could stay here for a long time, you realize, just here, in his arms, with his heartbeat strong in your ears.

The first droplet hits your head, hot and heavy, and you realize he’s crying, too.

Well, Asriel had to get it from somewhere.

 

 

Asriel cleaves to you, his arms locking around your body in a fervent embrace that you return with just as much force. You don’t want to let go. You never have.

He presses his face to the crook of your neck, his tears and breath warm against your skin, and you hold him close and you stroke his fur and nothing needs to be said, because you both know. After so long, you know.

You love him, and he loves you, and that is all that needs knowing now.

Your tears bead and roll off his fur, and you think it’s a little unfair that he’s more waterproof than your clothes are.

 

 

Frisk doesn’t tackle you, doesn’t whisk you up into a hug, and you’re grateful for it. You know they’d like to; they’re all about hugs, about holding and being held, but you like your hugs with warning labels and you’re already exhausted from crying and don’t think you could handle much more.

So instead, Frisk leans on you, gently, putting an arm around your shoulders in a half-gesture of a hug. You’ve long since come to the agreement that it means the same thing, for days when you can’t stand to be held but you need the comfort of it, or for days when they need the contact but you can’t give it.

You shake a little bit in their one-armed embrace, and you swipe uselessly at your eyes. They’re still puffy from crying. You hate it.

Frisk reaches over, their hand slow and careful, and adjusts your bangs so that they lie even over your eyes. Despite your emotional exhaustion, you snort, and you turn your head so they can’t see you smile.

They know you’re smiling anyway.


End file.
